


Summer Collection

by ZaliaChimera



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Affectionate Insults, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Angst, Exhaustion, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Non-Explicit Sex, Photo Shoots, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 22:37:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6096224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Church returns from Fashion Week and hasn’t slept in days. Wash has no sympathy. Well, maybe just a little. Deep down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Collection

**Author's Note:**

> I swear this was meant to be a quick porny one-shot where Church is a fashion photographer, and Wash is a model. Along the way, angst and backstory happened.

“You are fucking late.”

Church is in his face the moment he steps into the warehouse, one finger jabbing against his chest. Wash rolls his eyes and knocks it aside. “You called me an hour ago. I didn’t even know you were back in the fucking country until then.” 

It comes out less calm than he’d intended, but fuck it, the first time he sees his boyfriend in a month and it’s to get called in for a photoshoot last minute. Christ, he should have stayed in bed, except hearing Church’s voice had made it impossible to enjoy having a lie-in alone.

Church crosses his arms over his chest and huffs. “Well excuse me for getting you a high profile gig. Jesus, models are such fucking divas.” He makes a shooing motion that is about a million times more diva-isn than anything Wash could hope to manage. “Go get prettied up. We’ve got a schedule.”

He thinks about walking out. He could go right now. He’s got another shoot tomorrow and has to fit in an essay by Monday. And sure Church would whine, but he does that anyway. Except that he also looks exhausted and Wash knows from experience what a bitch Fashion Week is. Hell, his schedule for Milan is already giving him nightmares.

Fuck. He’s stuck here isn’t he?

The warehouse is one of those nice airy ones that’ll probably be turned into expensive apartments for some billionaire’s property portfolio within six months. But right now it’s an echoing chapel of pillars and tall windows and the occasional patch of water spreading across the concrete floor. Church’s camera is already set up, along with the lights and a selection of reflectors. There’s a rack of clothing for the shoot and behind that, a makeup station’s been set up. The make-up and costume ladies are obviously old hands at this; doesn’t bat an eyelid when Wash strips off and submits himself to their tender mercies. He’d done a couple of university fashion shows before, when he’s needed the cash, and the reactions, ranging from awkward giggling from the less mature students, to awkward questions about some of his scars, had always made him uncomfortable.

These ladies are efficient. Pretty soon the makeup artist has worked miracles and he looks less like he hasn’t slept properly since Church went on his trip. The nastiest of the scars, the one that curls around his shoulder and is less ‘dangerously handsome’ and more ‘got brutally stabbed and nearly bled out’, has been faded enough that it probably won’t show up. 

Once again he is grateful that he doesn’t have to put up with the same bullshit standards the female models do.

“About time,” Church grumbles when he emerges, but there’s a tell-tale flick of his gaze across Wash’s body followed by a sudden intense focus on the lens of one of his cameras. It puts Wash in a much better mood.

The first shots are a quick shutter series, checking the light levels and contrast. Church had tried to explain the technicalities once, and Wash has picked up a little just from modelling, but he’s not really comfortable with anything more complicated than the camera in his phone. Drives Church mad. That’s half the fun.

“I suppose I should get some closeups first,” Church says, “before your makeup melts off and you go back to looking like a train wreck.”

“Trainwreck must be in this season then,” Wash says, and he bares his teeth in a grin. “Had five shoots since you went back to New York.”

Church’s hands tighten on the camera. Wash can see the clench of his jaw. He bets he’s got that knot of tension all the way down his neck. “Like hell I know why you keep getting booked. Have to spend hours touching up just to stop you looking like you’ve been punched in both eyes.”

“Good thing you’re a photographer. it’s the only way you get to see someone this hot up close.”

The camera clicks as Church takes a few shots, before giving him the finger. “I am fucking drowning in hot people. If I hadn’t been so busy in New York, I could have had someone every fucking night, Wash. More than one person even! I could have had orgies! Yeah.”

Wash holds still while Church gets in his space, taking shots of his face and then moving down, lingering on the waistband of the designer jeans slung low on his hips and held there by carefully concealed tacking. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t actually need that many shots, but he’s not going to argue. Photographers are at least as highly strung as models in his experience.

“Maybe you should just…” Church’s hand trials down over his stomach, warm, long-fingered hand pushing the jeans down an extra half-inch. “Yeah, better,” Church grins.

“Any fucking lower and I’ll think you’re taking kickbacks from a porn mag,” Wash says and he makes no attempt to pull the jeans back up. 

“They fucking wish they could afford someone as classy as me,” Church says. “Go lean artfully on that pillar, Wash. I want to photograph your butt.”

“Right. It says that right in your brief for the shoot,” Wash says, utterly dry.

“Yes,” Church replies. He grabs a stack of papers from the nearby table and waggles it at Wash. “Right here. Says ‘take plenty of butt shots. You know how much the women who read this magazine likes butts.’” His hands are shaking, the reason clear when he picks up a giant size coffee and takes a swig. Wash narrows his eyes, calculates; Church’s flight must only have got into London that morning, early if he’s had time to set up a shoot and he is basically incapable of sleeping on planes. Wash is pretty sure his veins are more caffeine than blood right now.

Wash leans and Church comes over to reposition him, hands tugging at his hips and shoulders until he’s satisfied. It’s one of those positions that is ridiculously uncomfortable but magazines pawn off as being natural. Wash feels like his spine is twisted double.

“Better,” Church hums, and then reaches out one more time to tilt Wash’s head up. His fingers are very warm against his chin, and linger past what is entirely professional. He pulls back quickly, and turns to his cameras. There’s another series of shots, during which Wash does everything but outright hump the stone pillar. Then a costume change (different jeans and a shirt this time, a designer brand that he will never be able to afford for himself unless he finds it in a charity shop), and he has to wait while Church rearranges everything because the light’s moved. 

“Right, we’re done,” Church finally declares, and snaps the cap onto the lens of his camera. It’s three hours and another triple espresso later. “You can stop pouting now, Wash. Zoolander you aren’t.”

Wash just looks at him for a moment before rolling his eyes and turning away. It’s a relief to change back into his actual clothes, ones that don’t cost about as much as a month’s rent. And then he waits 

Church is methodical in tidying his equipment even when wired on more coffee than is healthy, packing each piece carefully into the right place, foam dividers protecting lenses. He’d been that way even when he’d been attached to Wash’s unit in the middle of a war zone, before they’d both been discharged.

“You done?” Wash asks when he sees Church reaching for the cleaning cloths. If he starts cleaning the lenses now, they’ll be here for another hour, into rush hour, and the makeup and dressing ladies look eager to leave. 

Church hesitates, hand jerking back so that the cloth falls on the floor. “Crap.” He leans down to get it, but Wash is faster, scooping it up and putting it back into the bag. Church stares at it, hand twitching at his side before he ducks his head in a nod. “Yeah. I’m done.”

The Tube is already getting crowded by the time they get to the station, and manoeuvring down the stairs with a tripod, a suitcase, and arms full of camera equipment is about as fun the twentieth time as it is the first, which is to say that it sucks beyond belief. 

Church is flagging. Exhausted Church is much the same as drunk Church, except with less profanity. He lists into Wash’s side, bumping his shins with his case and completely failing to walk in a straight line.

“Fucking hate flying,” he mumbles against Wash’s shoulder while they wait for the next train on the Northern Line. 

“Right. And for some reason you thought being a fashion photographer was going to be a good job for you,” Wash replies.

“War photographer,” Church says reproachfully. “Eh, some of the people are catty enough it might be the same thing.”

“Because being a war photographer is so much better on the non-flying front.” He starts to lean again, and Wash hoists him up. “Christ, when did you last sleep?”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly four.”

“Two days ago,” Church says bluntly and utterly unrepentant. He catches Wash’s unimpressed look. “What? I got invited to a party. With hookers and blow and editors of magazines. I totally had a threesome with two hot Swedish guys by the way.”

“Uh-huh,” Wash says, deliberately unimpressed. The train pulls into the station and Wash steers Church onto it, and into a couple of empty seats near the door. Church all but collapses like a someone cut his strings. 

“Yeah,” Church continues, “so fucking hot. It was-“ He pauses to stifle a yawn. “Y’know. Hot.”

Wash just hums disinterest and tucks Church against his side. Church elbows him in the ribs. “You’re supposed to get mad.”

“Try something believable next time,” Wash replies. Every time. He does this every time. Like he’s wanting to push Wash to some kind of breaking point.

“Asshole,” Church growls. “I am just… just a fucking sex magnet. People drape themselves all over me.”

“Yeah, ‘cause they’re gonna arrest your ass,” is the response, and Wash grins. The man sitting next to Wash in a charcoal suit is looking at them with that sneering expression people from the City get. Wash stretches his legs out in front of him, spreading them wide so the ripped denim pulls against his thighs and crotch, and smirks before turning his attention back to Church.

“You’re still fucking me,” Church says, sounding thoroughly grumpy. 

“I have fucking brain damage, so that’s not an endorsement,” he says.

“Ugh, always using the brain damage as a comeback. You need new material.” Church leans back and raises a hand to tousle the hair at the back of Wash’s head, deftly tracing the line of old scar tissue that lies beneath it.

They get off at Camden Town station and lug their gear up the stairs and out onto the street. It’s busy at this time, especially as they head up towards the lock. Wash has become an expert at repelling people trying to shove CDs into his hands or drag him into their stalls. It’s because he looks like he knows where he’s going and has a place to be. Church says it’s because he looks like he’s going to murder someone if they touch him. Either way it works.

“Christ, the hell is he wearing?” Church sneers, keeping up his stream of grumbled insults towards everyone and everything. “She’s gonna break her neck in those heels.” They turn down the towpath by the canal which is a little less crowded. “God, this whole place is a bad 90s hangover I swear,” he says as they pass by a group of teenagers dressed in neon rave gear. It’s followed immediately by him glaring at a bunch of guys in suits. “Posh assholes don’t belong here. Posers.” His accent slips and slides with exhaustion, British words mingling with a thicker southern States drawl.

By the time they’re back at their flat, Church’s bitching has dissolved into a mostly incoherent rant about Fashion Week. Wash catches him muttering about ‘fucking stuck-up Versace parties’ and ‘corsets are not a new idea’.

“I feel like shit,” Church says when they reach the front door of their building. He groans and drops his stuff so he can lean against the wall while Wash digs out his keys. 

“You look like shit,” Wash fires back. 

“You- you-“ Church gives up and gives him the finger.

“Use your words, Leonard,” Wash says, cracking the last syllable of his name on his tongue.

Church glares blearily at him and then rests his face against the brick again. “Do you think if I smashed my head against the wall enough my skull would actually crack and you’d see my brains?”

The key always sticks. Wash jiggles it until it turns. “Wouldn’t recommend it,” he says with a shrug. “It fucking hurts. Also that’s when they start talking about sedation and locking you up for your own protection.” They never believed him when he’d said that it helped him get his head clear.

Church is watching him with that odd expression he sometimes gets, the one that’s a mutt hybrid of concern, pity and awe. He gets it whenever Wash alludes to the months around his discharge, like it didn’t fucking suck for both of them. 

“You see,” Church says, pushing off the wall as Wash pushes the door open, “that’s the part when you’re supposed to say ‘what brains?’ instead of pulling out some crazy special-ops trauma bullshit.”

That’s better. Wash grins at him, a baring of his teeth. “What’s the point in stating the obvious? Now get your sorry excuse for an ass in here or I swear I am calling up Donut and letting him redecorate.”

It’s not a threat he’s ever going to follow through on. Even with his incredibly low standards for accommodation, there’s only so much faux fur and sequins that one man can take. It gets the job done, and Church scrambles up the stairs and into the shared hallway, narrowly avoiding tripping on the cracked Victorian tiles that would probably be black and white if they weren’t permanently covered in a layer of grime. 

“You are a fucking cockbite,” Church snarls. He grabs his bags and starts carrying them up the stairs. Their flat is on the top floor, a little attic apartment with a kitchenette and a bathroom, and a bed that they don’t even bother folding up into a sofa anymore. It’s the cheapest place they could find, and since it’s London it’s still a good chunk of money. They could probably afford much better between the two of them, but work can be sporadic and Wash still has classes to pay for and Church has equipment to buy, and hey, low standards.

Wash dumps Church’s stuff just next to the door. He hates anyone else putting it away. Says it gets disorganised. Wash isn’t about to argue. Church follows him in a moment later, dumps his stuff, and goes to collapse on the bed, sprawled out like a starfish. 

Wash trails into their tiny kitchen. “Do you want coffee or beer?”

“Beer,” is the emphatic response, “please.”

He grabs a couple of cans. There’s still bottles of North’s microbrewery stuff from the last time he stopped over (insisting that he’s just been passing even though he’d brought bags of groceries for them), but he doubts Church will even taste it.

Church is already stripped down to his boxers when Wash gets back, his face mashed into the pillow. He’s still taking up most of the bed so Wash drops the cold can onto the small of his back. Church jerks up with a yell out shock that transmutes into a fluid string of curses in English and Spanish, and what Wash thinks is some dialect word learnt from the Ethiopian man who runs the takeout place in the market. It gives Wash enough room to slide onto the bed and prop himself up against the wall facing their TV which is stood up on a couple of stolen milk crates.   
 There’s a hiss when Church opens his can and he’s downed half of it before Wash even takes a sip of his own, then he slumps back, leaning heavy against Wash’s side. “You’re lucky you made a good pillow,” he grumbles.

“You’re lucky I have terrible taste in men.”

Church rolls over so that he’s sprawled on top of Wash, stranding his hips and his face very close to Wash’s. He can smell the beer on his breath. “I am absolutely the best thing you have taste in. I am fucking awesome and a blessing to your drab mediocre existence.”

He’s not sure if it’s more or less annoying because it’s true. His classes are going well, and his job has some fantastic perks (visiting countries that aren’t a goddam war zone is a novel experience), but he wouldn’t have had any of that if Church hadn’t goaded him into it. 

Yeah, it’s really fucking annoying because it’s true.

He leans in and kisses Church anyway, swallowing down the startled noise he makes. Then the hard line of his back softens and he drapes himself against Wash, fisting his hands into Wash’s t-shirt. It stays like that for a few moments, lips moving against lips, and then Church presses his tongue into Wash’s mouth in an eager movement, like he wants to merge them into one creature.

Wash drags his hands up the length of Church’s spine, rucking his t-shirt up with it until his bare skin is exposed, and he gasps when Wash’s fingers press against the edges of of scar tissue from a shrapnel wound, once slick and pink, and now white against tawny skin. There’s the customary grope in the bedside table for condoms and lube, and a slow, lazy coupling while the afternoon spills golden into their flat.

“I didn’t really have a threesome,” Church offers, the words mumbled against Wash’s shoulder in the hazy afterglow. They’ve cleaned up because Church hates to be dirty (hated the mud and blood of it, back with the unit), and Wash hates having to follow all of the steps he needs to get things cleaned at the laundrette down the street, when homework and real work and living is about as much as he can manage some days.

“I guessed,” he replies, turning to nuzzle Church’s ear, and to nip lightly at the shell of it.

Church makes a sleepy noise of protest and shoves his face away. “Gross. You don’t know where I’ve been.”

Wash stares down at them both, naked and sated, his ass aching in the most pleasant of ways. He smirks. “Think I might.”

“Here I am, trying to be honest and fucking mature,” Church says, rolling his eyes. He’s managed to sprawl over three-quarters of the bed somehow. He’s never been good at compact. Wash remembers him showing up at base, suitcase packed like he was going on vacation. He doesn’t own much stuff now besides his cameras, so he makes up for it with his body, in gestures and volume.

“There totally was a party,” Church continues doggedly. “And I’m pretty sure there was blow because there always is, and there were hot Swedish blonds but ugh, pretty sure everyone was too wasted to get it up anyway. I was. But that sounds pretty lame. A threesome sounds much cooler.”

Wash snorts. “Sounds pretty lame when it’s unbelievable. You wouldn’t know what to do with a threesome.”

“Fuck you,” he says, and then grins, a smug expression, “which by the way, I just did. And don’t tell me you can’t feel it ‘cause I saw you wince.” He tries to prove his point by poking Wash’s ass and ends up squeezing it instead, making a content noise. Wash counts himself lucky that he doesn’t try to make honking side effects. 

“Give me strength,” Wash mutters, and throws an arm across his eyes. The sun’s got to that point where it blazes through the window and they still haven’t got around to putting up curtains. Or even buying curtains. It feels a bit more permanent than either of them can handle.

“You working tomorrow?” Church asks, quieter this time.

Wash hums in agreement. “Got a shoot tomorrow. But that’s not till later.”

“Heh, got you all to myself then. Wild time tonight!” It would be more effective if Church didn’t have to stifle a yawn. “So wild. The wildest.”

“Go to sleep, Church,” Wash replies, and Church’s eyes are closed so he can let himself smile, feeling a little more complete now that Church is home.

Church pushes him, but it’s half hearted at best. “Don’t tell me what to do, asshole.” He goes silent for a moment, and Wash almost thinks he’s fallen asleep until he continues. “Unless I ask you to. It’s kind of hot when you go all big scary marine who must be obeyed.”

“Church,” he says again, harder now, “go the fuck to sleep.”

“Yeah, that’s the voice,” Church says with a tired hum. “Give it to me good, si-“

It’s followed with a snore and Church slides slowly down his shoulder, only saved from smashing his head against the wall because Wash catches him and eases him down. He follows after him, stretching out in the lingering patch of sun. Church makes a muffled noise and burrows his face against Wash’s shoulder. Even asleep he’s noisy and bossy and steals the covers. Wash takes the hint and drags the blanket over them both and lets Church limpet onto him. He’s not going to get any work done until Church wakes up. And that- that’s okay.


End file.
